


Stray Sparks

by pomegrenadier



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-06 18:30:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 3,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4232292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pomegrenadier/pseuds/pomegrenadier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miscellaneous ficlets featuring my Sith Warrior, Evren Straik: cooking enthusiast, Dark Lord, and ridiculous marshmallow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Skill Check: Intimidate

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by my frustrations with the endless combat conga line that is SWTOR gameplay.

"Quinn, with respect to your tactical appraisal of the situation, just because I _can_ slaughter my way through this station does not mean that I _should_."

Quinn seems to give this due consideration. "I confess, my lord, I fail to see how else you might gain entrance to the communications hub."

Evren smiles. "I'll ask nicely."

****

**o.O.o**

He presses the blade emitter to the security chief's abdomen, elbow locked around his throat. "Order your underlings to stand down," Evren hisses in the man's ear, ignoring the fear emanating from those very underlings as they watch the proceedings, frozen. "And know that should you refuse, or command them to open fire even at the cost of your own life, I will simply take another hostage and repeat this tiresome process until _somebody_ sees reason. Now. _Give the order_."

****

**o.O.o**


	2. Comparative Morphology

"Whoa," Vette says, eyeing the x-ray printouts. "Okay, yay, nothing horribly broken from being thrown through a _wall_. Go you. But can I just put it out there that human skulls are _weird_? How do you fit your whole brain inside?"

"How do you go around with important bits of your nervous system slung over your shoulders?" Evren shoots back.

"And all that hair—no wonder you spend so much time in the bathroom every morning; you gotta contend with this keratin crap poking through your _skin_ —"

"Oh, you're one to talk, I've seen the lekku-buffing bills you rack up at every opportunity—"

"Are those supposed to be there?"

"Hmm?"

"Those," Vette says, pointing at a pair of small bone spurs at either side of the jawbone. "Nothing like 'em on Quinn's . . ."

"I'm from an old Sith family," Evren says with a shrug. "We're only mostly human. Did you really think I came by these stunning cheekbones honestly?"

**o.O.o**


	3. Darth Cake vs. The Pod Person

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by one of the Oricon daily missions where you go rescue Republic troops from their escape pods. Always wondered what those troopers thought of the situation.

Merahle squints through the haze as a gloved hand reaches into the escape pod. She takes it, grunts as she's pulled up and deposited just outside the pod. Ground's all glassy black rock—volcanic. Air's breathable but smells awful, like sulfur and smoke and rot.

Welcome to Oricon, apparently. Ugh.

She wipes the grit from her eyes with the back of her wrist and blinks up at her rescuer. She freezes. Black armor, red tattoos, too-bright yellow eyes—

"Sith," she spits out, scrambling for her sidearm.

The Sith takes a step back, hands half-raised, well away from the lightsabers at his sides. "Hold a moment," he says, accent dripping Dromund Kaas. "I'm not here to harm you, you are not a prisoner, and you'll be free to return to your base as soon as we can clear a path."

"And I'm supposed to believe that?" Merahle snorts. She levels her blaster pistol at his exposed face. "You people never just let us go. There's always a catch."

He smiles crookedly and shrugs. "Well, this does make the Empire look rather nicer than we usually are, but on balance I'd prefer disingenuous altruism to wanton brutality, don't you agree?"

"Not _that_ disingenuous," another voice chimes in from nearby. A Rutian Twi'lek woman drops down from the ledge just behind the Sith. She waves at Merahle and says, "Hi. Seriously, Imp base is probably the safest spot on the planet right now thanks to Lord Goatee and his magical mental shield."

"Safe?" Merahle says. "With a bunch of—"

"Might we argue this later?" the Sith says, glancing over his shoulder. "It appears that the locals have detected us."

"I'll head them off," says the Twi'lek.

The Sith nods, and she dashes down the slope and out of sight. He turns back to Merahle, sighing. "Look," he says, "you have no reason to trust us and no guarantee this is not a trap. But what other options are there?"

Merahle doesn't lower her blaster. "Could just stay here."

A faint, bloodcurdling scream drifts through the smoky miasma, followed by a salvo of blasterfire.

The Sith _rolls his eyes_. "Yes, that's a splendid idea, do let us know how that works out for you. Stay or go. Your choice." He turns his back on her and begins making his way down the hill.

Merahle hesitates for a moment. Then she curses and hurries to follow. She doesn't want to die out here. And hey—she's gotten out of worse situations than a camp full of Imps with less than one blaster pistol handy. Worst-case, she'll steal a speeder and get back to base. She hopes.

**o.O.o**


	4. Aesthetic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy Ev 'n Vette. Shocking, I know. \o/

"Do you even own clothing that isn't grey or black?" Vette says.

Evren seems to give this due consideration. Then he coughs. "Actually . . ."

Vette sighs. "Not even red? Rah-rah Empire red?"

"Black and grey are _tasteful_ ," Evren says. "Red draws entirely too much attention, and those who favor it tend to also favor the fringey end of Sith aesthetic excess."

"We talking the Imperial Guard's weird hats, or . . . ?"

"That, or Darth Marr's, ah, _unique_ armor."

Vette winces. "Yikes. But, uh. Blue, maybe? You'd look great; it'd bring out your eyes."

"Oh. Erm. Thank you." Evren rubs the back of his neck, head ducked.

"Fair warning, I'm kidnapping you and taking you shopping one of these days."

"The horror, the horror."

"Your wardrobe is a horror, Mr. I-am-allergic-to-colors."

**o.O.o**


	5. Mediation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old ficlet. Pure silliness with Sith Lords and their beleaguered apprentices. (Probably set prior to Sacrifice in the main series? Maybe? Post dates notwithstanding I wrote this first, so eh. Idk.)

**o.O.o**

"Lord Straik."

"Darth Nox."

They stare at each other for a moment, frozen and fraught. Then—predictably—the lightsabers come out, the dramatic posing starts, and the Force starts to roil with latent aggression.

Jaesa sighs heavily. "Here we go," she mutters, reaching for her own lightsaber in resignation. But out of the corner of her eye, she spots a flash of orange and white—whirling, she faces it, finds herself crossing blades with a Togruta girl in dark robes—

"Wait!" Jaesa shouts, disengaging and retreating a few steps. "All of you, stop!"

"Hang on—Jaesa?" the girl says incredulously.

"Yes, it's me—"

"You _know_ each other?" says Nox, her silvery eyes narrowing to slits.

"Apparently they do," Evren says with a minute shrug. He keeps his guard up, though, and doesn't look away from Nox.

"It's good to see you again, Ashara," Jaesa says, determined to keep the conversation going. The longer she can stretch this fragile truce, the more likely everyone is to get out of this with all limbs still attached. She deactivates her lightsaber, smiles, and holds out her arms—Ashara grins and embraces her. Her Force signature has steadied since the last time they met. No longer is it a jagged, fitful thing, erratic and unpredictable; it has been honed and polished until it shines like steel.

"We heard you had to go on the run," says Ashara. She glances over at Evren, clears her throat. "I guess that didn't go as planned . . ."

"Not really, no. And I suppose your training took a few interesting turns, too."

"That it did." Ashara pulls away a little, stern-faced. "So where have you been all this time? You promised you'd keep me updated and you never commed me back! You owe me, what, five years' worth of messages now? Start talking."

Jaesa winces. "Sorry. Master Karr said it was too dangerous to maintain contact with friends from the Republic . . ." Come to think of it, he did an _excellent_ job of isolating her from everyone ranging from friends to family to fellow Jedi—anyone who might take issue with his plans for her.

"I get it. Safety first and all that."

". . . We're being ignored," Nox says in conversational tones.

"In fact, we're being _strategically_ ignored," Evren says. "I think we're meant to stand down."

The Sith Lords look at each other some more. Jaesa tries not to yell at hers to hurry it up, focuses on chatting with Ashara. These concepts—stepping away from a fight, trusting other people—are difficult for them to understand, and require patience and practice to drill into their justifiably suspicious brains. But eventually, the Sith do power down their lightsabers, and the Force relaxes between them. Sort of. As far as it ever does between people who aren't quite ready to believe that they aren't enemies. Jaesa will take what she can get.

**o.O.o**


	6. Expedience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some thoughts about the LS choice after the final boss on Ziost, and what was going through Evren's head at the time . . .

“ _No_ ,” Evren says, rounding on Lana. “You will not touch Surro. You will not lay a finger on her. She’s suffered enough—”

“And if her sacrifice saves billions of lives? What then?” Lana demands.

“Then let _her_ make that choice, because you have no right!”

“Now is not the time for your moral qualms—”

“When is it ever? When is it ever _convenient_ to do the right thing?”

“We can’t afford to ignore this opportunity.”

Evren nearly screams at her. Of course. Of _course_ it’s all expedience and necessity, of course she’s the pragmatist, again, always, so willing to sacrifice others for the sake of the greater good on the slimmest chance it might confer an advantage. She’s the perfect Sith. He thinks he could hate her for it. But for Manaan, for _Rishi_ , for the bright fleeting spark of what might have been friendship—for that, for the grief in her eyes and the emptiness in Surro's—

He eases his expression back to something more human. “Please. Lana.”

**o.O.o**


	7. Nostalgia Trip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dug up a snippet from Yavin IV. And no, they’re not killing the local Massassi, I’m sick of Bioware being shitty about “uncivilized” species, fuck that.

**o.O.o**

“It’s just like old times.”

“Hmm?”

“You and me, wandering around ancient Sith ruins, poking at weird architecture to open doors that were sealed a couple thousand years ago for very, _very_ good reasons …” Vette peeks over the top of the crumbling wall sheltering them. “Oh, and by the way, there’s a bunch of Revanites coming this way. Thirty seconds.”

“Better hurry, then,” Evren says, sliding the last panel back into place and laying a hand on one of the locking mechanism’s facets. He focuses; the air goes sharp and prickly with static. There’s a crackle of electricity under his palm, then a deep throbbing _thud_ as the lock disengages. He shakes out his hand, wincing. Force lightning has never been his forte.

“Fifteen seconds, Ev.”

He nods and closes his eyes for a moment, drawing the Force around himself and Vette to cloak them from view. “Onward,” he says quietly.

“Right behind you,” Vette replies.

They dart out of cover, angling away from the approaching Revanite minions, the next relic simmering dark and baleful in the Force ahead.

**o.O.o**


	8. Sacrifice Missing Scenes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exactly what it says on the tin. A couple of in-betweeny scenes that I wrote long after I initially posted Sacrifice, but which still might be of interest. Ev's POV rather than Vette's, which is why I decided against retroactively sticking them in the actual fic.

**o.O.o**

**i. dressed to kill**

The glossy black armor is far more formal than his usual set. Shinier, for one, and the cloak is hardly practical for combat. Evren still breathes easier encased in the reinforced plasteel. With its comforting heft across his shoulders, and his lightsabers at his sides, he feels slightly less inclined to run shrieking from an evening among family.  
  
He steps out of his quarters and grins. Vette's already waiting in the main room, leaning against the holoprojector with a smug expression. "Told you I'd be faster," she gloats.  
  
"Oh, this was a competition, was it? Whenever did we establish that?"  
  
"Well, I still won, so _ha_. How do I look?" She gives a little spin, arms spread. Her gown is a rich indigo that brings out her eyes, accented with starry silver, and though it's sleek and fitted through the bodice he knows for a fact that she has at least two high-powered holdout blasters tucked away within the folds of the skirt. It also has pockets. Those were non-negotiable.  
  
"You," says Evren, "look absolutely stunning."  
  
"Aw, thanks. You're not too shabby yourself. Real Sithy."  
  
"I'm aiming for the deadly-yet-dashing aesthetic," he says loftily.  
  
"Well, mission accomplished, there. Ready?" says Vette.  
  
"My lady," he says, bowing and offering an arm.  
  
Her Force aura shimmers as she takes it, flaring mischievously in time with her shout of "Hey, Jaesa, Quinn, we're heading out! Play nice while we're gone!"

**o.O.o**

**ii. wrap-up**

It could have been far, far worse. He was able to steer Vette away from Meliah for the better part of the evening, and even when Meliah did approach she was quickly distracted by Darth Nox's timely intervention. Which wouldn't be unwelcome were it not for the fact that Nox _knows_. Or suspects, and wants him to think she knows. Or she does know, and was simply trying to be supportive—Jaesa did say she had no ill will towards them after their first meeting, but he's a _traitor_ and _she knows._  
  
Damned Sith mind games. Nox is alarming, but Meliah is the more pressing concern. She knows about Vette now. He bloody well introduced them. If Meliah recognized how he felt about her, assumptions about the exact nature of their relationship notwithstanding—if she responds the way she always has when he shows that he cares about someone or something—  
  
No. Stop.  
  
Evren exhales, crosses his arms. The armor redistributes the pressure more evenly, and it's almost like a—  
  
Pathetic. Stars, he is _pathetic_. And a self-absorbed bastard. Meliah has better things to do than threaten his friends. More to the point, he is not a child anymore. She has no real power over him. If she tries anything, he's well within his rights to retaliate. And Vette can handle herself.  
  
Rationally, he knows this.  
  
Now he just needs to make himself believe it.

**o.O.o**


	9. A Lemonade Story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I received a request to write a lemon story about Evren and Jaesa. I live to serve :)

**o.O.o**

"Jaesa, why do you have an enormous crate of lemons?"  
  
Jaesa holds up a hand to hush him, brow furrowed in intense concentration as she levitates the enormous crate of lemons up the boarding ramp and then maneuvers it into the cargo hold. She sets it down gently, then turns to Evren, who has been shadowing her, with a satisfied nod. "My network is having some, uh, cash flow problems."  
  
Evren looks blank. "I . . . don't quite follow . . .?"  
  
"I intend to finance our operations by starting a small business!"  
  
"But— _lemons_?"  
  
"Lemonade."  
  
"What."  
  
"Everybody loves lemonade. I'm sure we'll be turning a significant profit in no time." Jaesa beams at him. "What do you think?"  
  
"Um," Evren says.  
  
"Wonderful. Help me juice them, would you?"  
  
"What, _now_?"  
  
"Yes, now, let's get started."

**o.O.o**


	10. In from the Cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still vaguely annoyed that the Warrior can't save that poor Jedi Padawan on Hoth who gets eviscerated by Broonmark. And I'm still vaguely perplexed by Broonmark as a companion at all. So here's my fix-it. Woo.

**o.O.o**

“It’s all right,” the woman says, her voice warm and gentle and _Republic_. The Force, too, is warm around her, and Sewlor clings to it with desperate strength. “It’s all right, Padawan, I promise.”

“The—the Sith—the Talz,” he croaks.

“The Talz is dead. It can’t hurt you anymore. You are _safe_. And you need to lie still so I can heal your side, okay?”

“Y-you’re a Jedi …”

Her smile is sad. “I was.” She places her hands on either side of the wound, warm palms against cold, blood-stiff fabric. He can feel the Force sinking into torn flesh, coaxing it back together, lending strength, easing pain. The _Light_ , and that’s—it’s been so long, and it’s so cold here, and the Light in her reminds him of home.

Sewlor whimpers slightly and blinks back tears. “Thank you,” he says, laying his hand atop hers.

And then the peace shatters as the Sith stalks back into the cave. “How is he?”

The woman is still focused on healing Sewlor. “Getting there,” she says absently. “Any unwanted visitors?”

The Sith shows teeth. “Not anymore.” He glances at Sewlor, and the grin fades. “Storm’s getting worse. I don’t think we can leave until it passes.”

“I didn’t have any plans for the afternoon, anyway.”

“Convenient.”

Sewlor holds very still and tries to release his terror into the Force. He takes a halting, shuddering breath. “W-what will you do with me?” he asks.

“There’s a Republic outpost not far from here,” says the Sith. “Once you’re mobile, you can be on your way.”

He stares. “But—I mean, thank you, but—why?”

Another smile, more wistful than feral. “I didn’t have any plans for the afternoon, either.”

“All right, now for the hard part,” says the woman, pausing in her work to rest a hand on Sewlor’s shoulder in reassurance. “You might want to meditate, or try a light healing trance if you know how; it should speed this up.”

“I tried to kill you both,” Sewlor whispers.

The Sith shrugs. “No hard feelings. In your defense, it was a very stressful situation.”

**o.O.o**


	11. Darth Mall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooo, finally a teeny tiny followup to something I alluded to waaaay back when!

**o.O.o**

“Remember when I threatened to take you shopping?”

“Oh no.”

Vette grins wolfishly. “C'mon, it’ll be _fun_ ,” she says, all anticipation and evil glee.

Evren has a bad feeling about this.

* * *

“Eep,” says Evren, upon exposure to the interior of the clothing store.

Vette bumps her shoulder against his, then gets down to business. “Outfits here first, then shoes—we’re gonna have to run across the street for that, though, they’ve got all the good ones.”

“I like the shoes I already have,” Evren says flatly.

Vette sighs. “You wear armored boots everywhere. You have no frame of reference.”

* * *

Vette sits up straighter and grins as he emerges from the dressing room. “Hel _-lo_. Lookin’ good.”

Evren tugs the scarf up a bit, face heating, unable to suppress a smile of his own. “Does this pass muster, then?”

“You tell me.”

“… I think I like it,” he says. It’s not armor, but the dark red jacket is armor _weave_ , and he did manage to talk Vette out of a foray into the shoe store. The rest of the clothes are all in shades of grey and black. Except for the scarf, which is deep, rich blue with the odd scarlet thread, soft and fine and strange against his skin. Yes, it could be a liability, but … it’s pretty. And it feels _nice_. And it’s so simple to wrap it such that it hides his tattoos, and then he—he could pass for a civilian.

After buying the clothes they walk out of the shop together. No one gives them a second look. Evren buries his nose in the scarf and breathes, grinning at the astringent scent of new, never-laundered cloth.

**o.O.o**


	12. Maelstrom

**o.O.o**

“What should we call it?” says Vette, bouncing a little on her heels. The ship is _gorgeous_ , okay–yeah, it’s ridiculously Imperial, but under all the brutal angles it’s a tough, fast little starship, and if she recalls correctly, this model even has _real water showers_. Fuck, yes.

Evren gives a vague, nervous I-have-no-idea-how-to-answer-you laugh. Stalling for time, Vette thinks. “ _Fury_ is a bit on the nose, isn’t it …”

“Just a little,” she says dryly. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s badass, but it’s kinda predictable. Generic.”

“Utterly unacceptable.”

“Heh. Ooh, how about the _Marauder_? ‘Cause, y'know, you maraud and stuff.”

“I also make you fancy caf, but I don’t think _Barista_ has quite the same ring to it,” Evren says, and though he’s smiling he sounds a little defensive.

Oops. Vette shrugs and waves a hand. “Okay, so not that …”

“The _Delver_? For your artifact-retrieval prowess?”

Vette preens, tossing her lekku around her shoulders and drawing up to her full height, smirking. “Yeah, I am pretty good.” She deflates, mouth twisting sideways. “I don’t know, doesn’t really work with the whole Sithy aesthetic to me. Even though we’ve done a lot of delving so far. Needs more runes or something.”

“Mm, point.” Evren goes quiet, hesitates for a moment, and then says, “… _Maelstrom_?”

“For the shitty weather?” she drawls.

“For the _shittiest_ of weather.”

Vette contemplates the name. It sounds dangerous and a little poetic and honestly it’d work just as well as the name of one of the big capital ships–but it’s over the top in a good way.

“ _Maelstrom_. I like it,” says Vette.

**o.O.o**


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tiny prompt fic originally posted to Tumblr; same goes for the previous chapter

**o.O.o**

Evren hesitates on the threshold of the Academy detention cell block. Muffled screams and electric crackles drift from the inner torture chambers, endless as the wind outside. Pain, fear, and misery leave the Force raw and bloody.

Except for a small area surrounding one particular force cage, at the far end of the room. Slowly, Evren approaches it, and the Jedi kneeling within.

“There is no emotion, there is peace. There is no ignorance, there is knowledge,” the Jedi is murmuring to himself, Core-accented words soft-slurred but still understandable. He is human, small and wiry, skin worn by time but with a peculiar agelessness in his features. He sways a little, unsteady; the Force is strange around him, somewhere between a feverish, drugged daze and the relief of cool water.

Evren expected … he’s not sure what he expected.

The Jedi still hasn’t noticed him. Evren inhales, refocuses, and says, “Is that the Jedi Code?”

The Jedi looks up, blinking vaguely, squinting through the buzzing red of the cage’s energy barrier. “The Jedi Code will guide me,” he mumbles. Then he blinks again. “You … you’re not one of the Inquisitors …”

“I’m just an acolyte,” says Evren. “I’ve, er, never actually met a Jedi before.”

“I am … Quorian Dorjis. I am a Jedi. Even here. Even on Korriban,” the Jedi says, with effort. He raises a hand to rub at his forehead and almost pokes himself in the eye. “You’re an … acolyte … Why are you here?”

There’s no one else within earshot. Evren still feels sick with fear. Inquisitor Urinth will not help him if this ruse is discovered and believed to be genuine. Then he’ll be just another scream echoing through these halls, another brief blossom of pain and terror, another set of bones for the desert. “I want to help you, Quorian Dorjis.”

“… How?”

“I can get you out of here.”

**o.O.o**


End file.
